u 


CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

1872-1933 


This  book  belonged  to  Chauncey  Wetmore  Wells.  He  taught  in 
Yale  College,  of  which  he  was  a  graduate,  from  1897  to  1901,  and 
from  1901  to  1933  at  this  University. 

Chauncey  Wells  was,  essentially,  a  scholar.  The  range  of  his  read- 
ing was  wide,  the  breadth  of  his  literary  sympathy  as  uncommon 
as  the  breadth  of  his  human  sympathy.  He  was  less  concerned 
with  the  collection  of  facts  than  with  meditation  upon  their  sig- 
nificance. His  distinctive  power  lay  in  his  ability  to  give  to  his 
students  a  subtle  perception  of  the  inner  implications  of  form, 
of  manners,  of  taste,  of  the  really  disciplined  and  discriminating 
mind.  And  this  perception  appeared  not  only  in  his  thinking  and 
teaching  but  also  in  all  his  relations  with  books  and  with  men. 


The  Story  of 
Mary  Mecome 


* 
THE  STORy 


MARY   MECOME 

BY 
ZEPHINE   HUMPHREY 


NEW  YORK 

DOIKIK    PUBLISHING   COMPANY 
40-42  EAST  19TH  STREET 


•  JPR.IVATELY  PRINTED   FOR   THE  AUTHOR 


•    ,*  *.         !      COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 
•*•*•-*•  'ZEPHINE  HUMPHREY 


IN  MEMORIAM 


CHAPTER  I. 

YOU  had  only  to  follow  your  nose  to  find  Mary 
Mecome — provided  you  were  hungry  enough.  For 
she  lived  over  a  little  bakery  whose  portal  diffused 
alluring  odors  the  length  of  its  humble  street.  Not 
too  humble  a  street,  however;  thoroughly  respectable,  or 
Mary  would  have  had  none  of  it.  Up  a  narrow  flight  of 
stairs,  around  to  the  left,  and  there  you  were !  That  was  all 
the  good  it  did  you,  to  be  sure,  unless  you  had  carefully 
timed  your  visit,  for  Mary  was  almost  always  from  home. 
And  in  her  absence  her  door  was  locked,  be  very  sure  of  that. 
But  if  you  came  in  the  early  evening,  after  the  day's  working 
hours  were  over  and  before  it  was  quite  time  to  go  to  bed, 
>and  if,  moreover,  you  were  one  of  the  very  few  elect,  then 
you  might  obtain  an  entrance.  Be  careful  of  your  shoes, 
however,  and  have  your  manners  well  in  hand,  for  this  is  no 
unceremonious  abode,  this  single  room  over  a  bakery,  and 
your  hostess  knows  her  requirements. 

She  was  scarcely  more  than  four  feet  tall,  perfectly 
proportioned,  with  a  dignity  of  bearing  which  put  any 
•strange  interlocutor  on  his  mettle  of  self-respect.  Nobody 
knew  quite  why  she  carried  herself  so  grandly.  There  was 

863676 


THE   STORY   OF    MARY   MECOME 


fno  o\st£rts$l?lef  Reason  in  the  plain  little  room,  nor  in  her 
'vocation'  of'  scrub- woman,  nor  in  her  diminutive  stature. 
But,  ,bstelns&.te ',  reasons  are  as  nothing  beside  those  man- 
dates of  the  spirit  which  go  forth  and  are  obeyed.  Mary  | 
Mecome  was  a  Personage,  circumstance  was  set  at  naught. 
It  was  also  a  question  unsolved  by  the  world  where  she 
came  from  and  who  she  was.  Not  that  it  mattered  much. 
Wherever  she  had  come  from,  she  had  done  it  long  ago, 
and  as  for  the  problem  of  who  she  was,  she  had  looked 
after  that.  She  was  Mary  Mecome.  Her  name  she  had 
brought  with  her  at  least  from  the  orphan  asylum  whence 
she  had  made  her  early  indomitable  entrance  upon  life — 
her  name  and  little  else.  Not  a  relation.  Well,  relations 
are  sometimes  troublesome  to  an  independent  spirit.  Not  a 
penny.  Well,  the  greater  zest  in  work.  Not  a  birthday. 
Ah,  that  was  a  different  matter.  Birthdays  are  a  universal, 
inalienable  possession  of  the  human  race ;  Mary  had  a  right 
to  one.  So  she  carefully  considered  the  calendar,  and  chose 
the  twenty-second  of  February  as  her  natal  day.  I  do  not 
know  that  she  chose  any  year.  It  would  seem  that  certain 
advantages  might  lie  in  a  wise  refraining  here,  and  Mary 
was  very  wise. 

It  was  not  to  be  doubted  that  she  made  a  success  of 
life.  She  earned  her  way  steadily.  Her  one  room  never 
impressed  the  observer  as  being  only  one,  "and  that's  all, 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MECOME 


poor  thing !"  but  as  a  quite  sufficient  abode,  a  home  of  com- 
fort and  peace.  The  kettle  sang  cheerily  on  the  stove,  the 
white  deal  table,  spread  with  a  cloth  across  one  end,  set 
forth  a  pleasant  supper,  the  walnut  table,  bearing  its  lamp, 
waited  with  copious  workbasket,  the  bare  floor  lay  speck- 
less  beneath.  It  was  a  cozy  domain  enough,  and  the  nar- 
row bed,  the  bureau  and  washstand  did  not  jar  on  its  har- 
mony, but  rather  added  to  the  good  cheer  by  their  sugges- 
tion that  the  little  mistress  of  that  genial  fire  need  not  leave 
its  grateful  warmth  to  find  her  way  to  her  pillow. 

Mary's  position  in  the  community  was  one  of  esteem 
and  honor.  "The  best  families"  employed  her.  She  cleaned 
houses  and  mended  carpets  and  sewed  on  dainty  ward- 
robes, her  fingers  were  versatile.  Then  on  Sunday  she 
went  to  church.  O,  none  of  your  Beulah  Chapels  for  Mary 
Mecome,  with  rousing  hymns  and  hands  at  the  door  and 
soup-tickets  and  what  not!  To  the  front  pew  of  the  grav- 
est old  church  she  could  find  in  the  grave  old  city,  most 
aristocratic  and  conservative  of  sanctuaries,  she  trotted 
steadfastly.  Decorum  was  the  food  of  her  spirit;  surely  in 
church  she  must  have  it.  The  venerable  pewholders 
watched  her  come  Sunday  after  Sunday,  tolerant  and 
amused.  She  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  foreground  to 
them  as  the  baptismal  font.  There  were  not  many  poor  in 
Olivet  Church ;  all  the  more  reason  for  Mary's  choice. 


THE    STORY   OF   MARY    MECOME 


Acquaintances  she  had  many  then;  smiling  faces  on 
every  hand — "Good  morning,  Mary.  How  do  you  do?" 
And  she  returned  all  greetings  courteously;  she  liked  the 
little  social  round  of  her  daily  life.  But  friendship  was 
another  matter;  there  she  held  herself  aloof.  This  reserve 
seemed,  of  course,  coldness  on  her  part;  women  of  her 
class  are  gregarious  ordinarily.  Very  well,  let  it  pass  for 
coldness.  At  night  Mary  mounted  to  her  room,  stopping 
by  the  way  to  buy  her  fresh  rolls  for  supper,  and  closed  her 
door  and  was  alone  quite  contentedly.  One  must  have  time 
to  live  one's  own  inner  life  now  and  then,  untroubled  by 
the  world. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  lonely  life,  this  of  Mary  Mecome's, 
but  I  think  not  consciously  so.  What  had  she  ever  had  to 
teach  her  the  meaning  of  love  and  companionship?  Where 
all  was  entire  lack  to  begin  with,  the  attainment  of  her 
position,  of  her  steady  support,  of  her  cozy  room  meant 
much  actual  good.  She  might  well  be  satisfied.  Moreover, 
her  spirit  was  austere,  with  a  certain  fine  control;  it  did 
not  waste  itself  beyond  its  range  in  vain  imaginings. 

Then  when  at  last  love  came  her  way ! 

But  that  is  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THIS  is  a  love  story    to  be  sure,  but   one  not  quite 
of  the  conventional  kind.     The  reader  is  doubt- 
less  anticipating  the  arrival   now   of   a   cavalier 
to  carry  off  Mary  Mecome;  some  goodly  baker, 
policeman,  janitor,  enamored  of  four  feet  of  independence, 
capable  and  alert.    No ;  at  the  risk  of  gainsaying  the  poets,  I 
venture  the  assertion  that  the  love  of  which  I  am  going  to 
write  was  a  finer  than  matrimony.     Finer  for  Mary  at  any 
rate.     Her  nature  flowered  in  it.     Some  natures  bear  only 
single  bloom,  pure,  pale  and  passionate ;  of  such  expect  not 
:he  double  rose. 

The  beloved  was  the  new  minister's  wife.  Perhaps 
the  minister  himself  led  the  way  a  little,  but  that  was  noth- 
iing  new.  Mary  had  the  propensity  of  her  sex  to  admire 
[ministers;  her  religious  life  was  strong.  This  thoughtful 
(man,  tall,  grave  and  kind,  a  little  remote  till  a  sudden  hu- 
mor shone  through  his  eyes  and  turned  them  blue — Mary 
'stood  in  awe  of  him  and  longed  to  sweep  his  carpet — a  ser- 
vice, in  fact,  she  was  soon  enabled  to  perform,  for  how 


8  THE   STORY   OF    MARY    MECOME 

could  the  parsonage  of  Olivet  Church  get  on  without  Mary 
Mecome?  She  went  down  on  her  knees  to  the  carpet  (it 
was  tacking  at  first,  not  sweeping),  she  looked  up  and  saw 
the  minister's  wife,  and  her  life-love  had  begun. 

It  was  not  so  much  because  of  kindness  shown — 
though  there  were  fervid  reminiscences  later  of  wonderful 
deeds  of  bounty,  the  gift  of  a  wrapper  when  Mary  was 
sick,  frequent  shelter  on  stormy  nights.  Gratitude  does 
very  well  in  its  place,  but  you  found  a  friendship  on  a  more 
independent  basis — congeniality,  nothing  less.  The  minis- 
ter's wife  was  congenial  to  Mary. 

"My  bosom  friend,"  Mary  called  her  at  once,  settling 
quietly  down  to  the  friendship ;  more  familiarly,  to  her  face, 
"Dear  You."  There  was  no  servility  in  the  relation,  hardly 
a  touch  of  deference ;  love  makes  for  equality.  But  neither 
was  there  any  presumption.  Presumption!  What  sort  of 
a  word  is  that  in  such  a  relationship?  Mary  came  in  and 
out  through  the  kitchen  door,  she  sat  with  the  servants, 
she  was  a  servant.  Of  course;  what  else?  What  should 
love  do  but  serve?  If  there  was  going  to  be  further  ques- 
tion of  gratitude  in  this  affair,  the  debt  should  be  all  on  the 
other  side.  To  Mary  Mecome  love  meant  giving.  Well,  to 
be  sure,  she  gave. 

The  minister's  family  from  henceforth  became  her 
charge,  her  care.  She  took  them  under  her  wing,  one  and 


THE   STORY   OF   MARY   MECOME 


all,  guarding,  befriending  them.  One  can  hardly  imagine 
a  finer  situation,  nor  one  more  full  of  the  subtleties  of  deli- 
cacy and  humor.  If  it  demanded  nothing  in  point  of  fact, 
it  put  the  spirit  on  its  mettle  to  fail  no  gracious  test.  Dear 
She  had  need  of  all  her  tact,  of  all  her  primal  intuitive 
sense  of  the  realities  of  things.  For  this  relation  was  pri- 
mal in  fact.  It  reverted  to  first  human  principles  and  took 
no  heed  at  all  of  extraneous  circumstance. 

Alone  in  her  room  in  the  evening  Mary  drew  her  work- 
basket  to  her  beside  the  cheerful  lamp  and  embroidered 
towels  and  napkins.  The  initial  letter  was  not  enough, 
sturdy,  resplendent  in  red  or  blue;  but  wreaths  of  flowers 
must  entwine  it,  loving  touches  of  the  unnecessary.  Some- 
thing of  the  spirit  of  the  old  cathedral  builders  was  Mary 
Mecome's,  of  the  early  Italian  painters;  she  lavished  her 
tender  skill. 

When  these  masterpieces  of  the  needle  were  presented 
to  Dear  Her  there  was  something  of  a  struggle.  It  may  be 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,  but  the  latter  office  is 
surely  the  more  difficult  and  makes  the  greater  demand  on 
the  Christian  grace  of  humility.  Dear  She  expostulated. 

"But,  Mary,  all  these  hours  of  time!  And  it  is  your 
very  livelihood.  I  can't." 

Mary  drew  herself  gravely  erect — she  reached  thus 
almost  to  the  shoulder  of  the  bosom  friend — and  looked  the 


10  THE   STORY   OF    MARY   MECOME 

answer  which  she  scorned  to  speak.  Livelihood  forsooth! 
The  towels  were  hastily,  meekly  accepted.  And  that  was- 
the  beginning.  Dear  She  little  knew. 

It  is  always  easy  for  love  to  find  service,  and  Mary's 
hands  were  never  idle  from  the  outset  of  this  friendship; 
but  it  did  seem  as  if  the  birth  of  the  baby  were  an  oppor- 
tunity created  on  purpose  for  her.  Perhaps  it  was  so  in- 
deed, who  can  say  ?  The  baby,  for  her  part,  is  willing.  And 
well  she  may  be,  for  such  attire  as  she  found  ready  to  deck 
herself  withal  when  she  reached  this  chilly  world  was 
enough  to  reconcile  any  feminine  mind  to  strange  ulterior 
disposals  of  fate.  Such  dresses,  such  flannel  petticoats  em- 
broidered to  the  waist,  such  sacques  and  blankets  and 
socks !  Dear  She  had  sighed  resignedly  many  a  time  and 
oft,  but  the  baby  did  not  sigh.  She  was  born  into  Mary 
Mecome's  bounty ;  she  knew  no  other  condition. 

Before  she  was  old  enough,  however,  really  to  know 
much  of  anything,  the  great  departure  came,  the  tragedy  in 
this  love  affair.  Dear  She  recognized  the  tragic  element 
which  the  change  would  have  for  Mary,  and  delayed  its 
announcement,  hesitating.  Mary  was  usually  quick  to  hear 
the  rumors  of  parish  news;  why  did  she  not  learn  this  im- 
portant fact  that  the  minister  had  resigned  ?  No ;  she  went 
on  her  way  serenely,  cheerful  and  busy  as  ever.  Ah,  Mary ! 
She  was  as  deep  as  she  was  steadfast. 


THE   STORY   OF    MARY    MECOME  .       11 

"So  it  seems  you  are  going  to  take  Mary  Mecome  with 
you,"  said  a  neighbor  casually  one  day.  "That's  something 
of  a  risk,  don't  you  think  ?  She's  so  very  difficult." 

Dear  She  caught  her  breath. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded. 

"Why,  she's  packing  up  all  her  things,  and  her  land- 
lady says  she  is  going  with  you.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
thought  of  course  it  was  some  arrangement  of  your  own." 

As  soon  as  the  neighbor  was  gone,  Dear  She  sum- 
moned Mary  from  the  kitchen. 

"Mary!"  she  almost  sobbed. 

Then  ensued  a  half  hour  so  hard  that  the  two  bosom 
friends  were  quite  spent  at  the  end.  Yes,  it  was  true,  Mary 
calmly  affirmed ;  of  course  she  was  going  with  them.  What 
else  should  she  do  in  the  world? 

"Out  there  in  that  wild  place" — she  meant  Cincinnati 
£-~  "you'll  need  your  old  Mary,  you'll  see.  I  couldn't  let 
Dear  You  go  alone;  I  couldn't  no  way  do  it.  It's  not  for 
pay,  Dear  You  knows" — she  flushed  a  little,  proudly — "I'm 
quite  well  off,  I  can  get  along,  I'll  just  come  and  live  with 
Dear  You  always." 

Yet  in  the  end  she  had  to  yield.  Dear  She  felt  as  if 
she  had  trampled  pearls;  yes,  even  so  humbled  was  her 
spirit  to  refuse  this  beautiful  thing.  As  for  Mary,  she  went 
away  quiet  as  ever.  If  the  walls  of  her  room  had  tales  to 


12  THE   STORY   OF   MARY   MECOME 

tell  of  any  grief  that  evening  they  kept  their  counsel  se- 
curely. 

On  the  whole,  I  think  she  did  not  waste  any  time  in 
idle  lamentation.  The  decree  had  gone  forth,  that  way  was 
closed,  another  way  must  be  found.  The  Flannel  Petticoat ! 
With  characteristic  directness  her  mind  saw  and  chose  its 
end.  In  the  wilds  of  the  West,  bleak,  barren  and  cheerless, 
re-enforcements  must  be  needed  against  the  elements;  she 
would  sew  and  sew  and  sew.  Here  at  least  she  could  not 
be  balked,  here  she  was  sure  of  attainment.  She  got  out  her 
needle  and  settled  herself  to  her  lifework.  And  from  that 
moment  until  her  death,  thirty  years  later,  she  never  stopped 
Considerable  Flannel  Petticoat?  Well,  the  reader  will  see 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHEN  I  came  to  years  of  consideration  (for  it 
must  be  known  that  the  baby  mentioned  in  the 
last  chapter  is  none  other  than  the  writer)  the 
patronage  of  Mary   Mecome  over  our  family 
was  an  established  condition.     My  father  had  died  and  our 
diminutive  patroness  had  thrown  the  shield  of  her  ample 
spirit  over  us  to  protect  us  from  harm ;  our  worldly  care  was 
hers.     Not  only  the  Flannel  Petticoat  now,  but  sheets  and 
pillow-cases,    table-cloths,   hoarded   treasures   of   crockery, 
rolls  of  "pieces" — silk,  cotton  and  wool — ornaments,  every- 
thing in  short  that  came  to  hand  and  could  be  passed  on 
found  its  way  to  us.     The  boxes  came  every  month  or  two, 
enormous    receptacles,    bursting    with    comforts — express 
charges  always  prepaid  of  course,  a  whole  day's  wages  often 
enough. 

O,  doubtless  no,  that  was  not  the  way  to  look  at  the 
matter  at  all.  We  showed  ourselves  unworthy  there,  as 
well  as  out  of  our  proper  sphere.  Mary  was  our  appointed 


14  THE   STORY   OF    MARY   MECOME 

Protector;  receptivity  was  our  part,  let  us  see  that  we 
kept  ourselves  to  it.  In  sober  truth  this  loving  bestowal 
was  the  crown  of  our  Patroness's  life,  and  we  should  have 
been  glad  for  her  (as  well  as  for  ourselves)  in  every  box 
that  discharged  itself  at  our  front  door.  But,  as  I  have 
said  before,  endless  receiving  is  not  easy. 

There  was  the  crazy-quilt  for  instance.  Mary  wrote 
exultantly  that  she  had  been  offered  one  hundred  dollars 
for  this  production;  yet  she  expected  us  to  receive  it  as 
a  matter  of  course,  with  a  satisfaction  as  complacent  as 
her  own.  I,  for  my  part,  had  no  objection.  The  years 
had  not  yet  opened  to  me  the  annoying  realm  of  scruples. 
It  was  almost  a  pleasure  to  be  sick,  if  so  I  might  be  put  to 
bed  beneath  that  expanse  of  varied  color,  and  lie  traveling 
through  the  little  fields  with  a  dreaming  eye,  browsing 
strange  pasturage  for  the  mind.  Each  little  field — red,  pur- 
ple, blue,  pink — was  railed  off  from  its  neighbor  by  a 
yellow  fence  of  feather-stitch,  and  the  whole  checkered 
country  rolled  away  in  gentle  undulations  to  a  boundary 
wall  of  yellow  plush  which  straitly  asserted  itself  at  length. 
I  climbed  the  fences  carefully  and  sat  down  in  the  little 
fields.  In  the  very  middle  of  the  quilt  was  a  square  in- 
scription, bearing  Mary's  initials  and  Dear  Hers  and  the 
date  of  presentation.  It  was  a  triumphant  quilt. 

But  I  think  my  carnal  soul  at  that  age  loved  best  of  all 


THE   STORY   OF    MARY   MECOME  15 

Mary's  gifts  to  us,  the  frequent  gingersnaps.  These  came 
by  the  half-bushel,  packed  so  precariously  in  a  large  paste- 
board box  that  they  were  almost  always  broken  into  bits. 
That  was  the  joy  of  the  whole  situation.  The  unbroken 
rounds  were  picked  out  by  my  elders  and  dedicated  to  the 
afternoon  tea-table,  where  they  were  served  to  attentive 
guests  with  a  smiling  dissertation;  but  the  bits  were  hand- 
ed over  to  me  and  stored  in  my  doll-house.  Delicious  re- 
pasts of  quiet  winter  afternoons,  where  a  dozen  dolls  sat 
to  be  eaten  for,  and  there  was  never  any  sure  calculating 
of  bits  proportionate  to  a  whole  in  case  of  maternal  restric- 
tion! 

There  was  always  the  Flannel  Petticoat  too;  that  must 
not  be  overlooked.  It  was  often  a  pain  to  hide  its  re- 
splendence (embroidered  in  red  silk  once,  I  remember) 
as  convention  demanded.  It  was  on  the  whole  Mary's 
stronghold.  Once  she  went  the  round  of  the  family  on  a 
single  Christmas  with  this  comfortable  offering.  The  task 
proved  too  much  for  the  promptness  of  even  her  nimble 
ringers. 

"Baby's  petticoat  isn't  finished,  I  am  so  sorry,  I  ask  her 
Pardon,  but  she  won't  be  left  to  go  Cold  very  long,  I'll 
work  Night  and  Day." 

I  really  think  she  thought  of  herself  as  standing  between 
us  and  destitution  in  our  wild  Western  home. 


16  THE   STORY   OF    MARY   MECOME 

It  was  always  in  vain  to  expostulate;  such  proceeding 
only  made  matters  worse. 

"So  Dear  You  tells  old  Mary  to  stop,  not  to  send  no 
more  Boxes,  but  Dear  You  might  as  well  understand  that 
Mary's  never  going  to  stop,  what  else  should  she  do  Fc 
like  to  know  but  take  care  of  her  Bosom  Friend?  I'm 
going  to  punish  Dear  You  now,  another  Box  is  ready  to 
go,  I  was  going  to  wait  till  I  had  more  Pieces  but  Dear 
You  has  made  such  a  Fuss  Dear  You  must  be  punneshed 
Won't  Dear  You's  eyes  shine  when  Dear  You  sees  the 
red  silk  Cover?  There  ain't  very  many  Pieces  but  Dear 
You  may  have  what  there  is  and  in  a  few  Weeks  I'll  senc 
another  Box." 

Our  rag-bags  overflowed  with  "pieces,"  our  camphor 
trunks  were  stuffed,  our  pantry  shelves  stood  deep  with 
dishes,  and  still  the  tide  rolled  in.  The  appearance  of  the 
Express  Company's  white  horse  at  the  entrance  to  our 
street  was  always  deeply  significant  to  us.  We  ran  to  open 
the  store-closet  door  and  give  an  extra  push  to  the  bag 
least  replete.  Of  course  we  emulated  our  Patroness  and 
gave  away  where  we  could,  but  you  cannot  give  the  ocean 
away.  Moreover  again,  this  was  not  our  role ;  Mary  meant 
her  gifts  for  our  use. 

Precipitate  flight  of  the  Protegees!  It  would  perhaps 
be  saying  too  much  to  declare  that  we  went  to  Europe  on 


THE    STORY    OF   MARY   MECOME  17 

purpose  to  escape,  but  we  laughingly  told  each  other  that 
such  was  the  case  indeed.  We  would  assert  ourselves,  we 
would  show,  tacitly,  delicately,  that  we  could  maintain  our- 
selves, even  to  the  point  of  some  little  extravagance.  Was 
this  again  ignoble  in  us?  I  at  least  make  confession 
frankly. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  Mary  wrote  to  us,  "that  Dear  You 
has  been  able  to  take  this  Trip,  I  think  of  the  good  times 
Dear  You  is  having  and  am  very  Happy  indeed.  Now 
Dear  You  must  not  worry  about  the  Expense,  I  have  made 
my  Will  and  have  left  all  my  Money  to  Dear  You,  it  is  quite 
ia  good  deal,  Dear  You  will  see,  some  day  Dear  You  can 
hold  up  your  Head  as  high  as  anybody." 

We  were  away  from  home  for  two  years.  No  boxes 
followed  us  of  course.  Perhaps  the  habit  was  broken,  we 
thought;  perhaps  Mary  would  settle  down  to  a  quieter 
mode  of  giving  now,  less  concentrated  and  intense.  A 
wonderful  tenderness  possessed  us  as  we  realized,  in  the 
right  perspective  of  distance,  the  uniqueness  of  this  devo- 
tion, the  beauty  and  almost  the  passion  of  it.  We  were 
humble  and  very  grateful.  Then  we  came  home,  and  there 
at  the  door  was  the  familiar  white  horse  of  the  Express 
Company.  Two  boxes  were  being  carried  up  the  steps, 
a  third  waited  in  the  hall,  and  a  fourth  and  fifth  box  came 
before  the  week  was  over. 


18  THE   STORY   OF   MARY   MECOME 

"I  have  saved  up  everything  for  Dear  You,"  Mary 
wrote  happily.  "Dear  You  shan't  have  to  lose  one  single 
Thing  by  being  away  so  long,  my  Room  is  stuffed  with 
Pieces." 

Ah,  Mary,  Mary  invincible !  There  was  nothing  for 
us  to  do  but  submit. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

YET  Dear  She  and  I  did  once  form  a  grand  conspi- 
racy.    A  trunk  had  arrived  from  Mary  Mecome, 
a  trunk  and  by  express!    It  contained  a  teapot,  a 
sofa  pillow,  two  boxes  of  gingersnaps,  six  yards  of 
red  flannel,  a  pair  of  slippers,  a  china  soap  dish,  a  Japanese 
fan,  a  wedding  ring,  a  garnet  breastpin,  a  calendar,  a  table- 
cloth, and  the  rest  in  pieces. 

Dear  She  let  her  hands  fall  in  her  lap,  sighing  despair- 
ingly. 

"It's  no  use,"  I  murmured ;  "she  will  not  stop." 
I  took  up  the  teapot  and  studied  it.  It  had  a  ruffle 
jof  itself  all  around  the  bottom,  with  little  holes  pierced 
therein — curious  device ! 

"No,"  responded  Dear  She,  musing,  with  her  eyes 
on  the  trunk.  "But  can  we  not  do  something  for  her?  I 
must  do  something  for  her." 

She  sat  thus  pondering  for  a  moment,  then  an  idea 
dawned  upon  her.  She  leaned  forward,  her  hands  on  the 
trunk,  her  face  waking  to  eagerness. 

"We  might  pay  her  back  in  her  own  coin,"  she  sug- 
gested. 


20  THE   STORY   OF   MARY    MECOME 

"You  mean?" — I  was  attentive. 

"I  mean" — Dear  She  became  animated  as  she  saw 
her  way  more  clearly — "I  mean  that  we  might  fill  her 
trunk,  her  very  trunk,  with  presents  and  send  it  back  to  her 
at  Christmas  time.  Would  she  like  that,  do  you  think?" 

"What  kind  of  presents?"  I  demurred. 

"Well"— Dear  She  glanced  at  the  open  trunk— "not 
clothes  of  course,  nor  china,  nor  ornaments  for  her  room. 
It  is  not  easy,  is  it?  Not  food — I  don't  know  though,  wait 
a  minute,  she  likes  to  live  well ;  how  would  it  do  to  fill  her 
trunk  with  good  things  to  eat,  choice  things  from  the  deli- 
catessen shops  such  as  she  would  not  buy  for  herself?  I 
believe  that's  a  good  idea." 

"We  could  put  a  whole  larder  into  that  trunk,"!  re- 
sponded, catching  fire.  "We'll  do  it,  Dear  You,  we'll  do  it ; 
and  we'll  begin  at  once." 

It  was  early  in  December  then;  we  had  a  full  two 
weeks.  I  suppose  we  had  never  enjoyed  an  enterprise 
more  in  our  whole  experience.  Our  ardor  grew  as  we 
planned  and  consulted,  making  out  delectable  lists,  search- 
ing the  grocery  shops,  reading  advertisements.  We  were 
very  sure  of  our  success,  already  triumphant  and  satisfied. 
It  was  not  so  much  (let  no  one  misjudge  us)  our  wish  to 
redeem  our  self-respect  as  our  honest  hope  to  give  pleasure 
to  one  who  had  lavished  herself  in  love  for  us ;  and  to  that 


THE   STORY   OF   MARY    MECOME  21 

end  we  were  as  careful  as  an  artist  with  a  picture,  as  pains- 
taking as  Mary  herself  with  her  crazy-quilt. 

"Onions?"  I  queried,  hesitating,  with  my  head  on  one 
side. 

Dear  She  hesitated,  too.    Dear  She  despises  onions. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  she  conceded.  "Mary  will  like 
them  probably." 

Sweet  potatoes  without  a  doubt,  a  fine  ham,  some  bot- 
tles of  olives,  cans  of  sardines  and  potted  meats,  cans  of 
French  vegetables,  jars  of  preserves  and  pickles  and  jellies, 
tea,  coffee,  Huyler's  cocoa,  a  box  of  candy — does  not  the 
mouth  water  merely  to  tell  of  this  display?  The  eyes  of 
Dear  Her  watered,  too,  but  not  from  the  fragrance  of  the 
spices  with  which  she  filled  up  the  chinks  in  the  trunk, 
only  from  joy  in  her  enterprise  and  assurance  of  its  suc- 
cess. 

"How  Dear  You's  eyes  will  shine!"  she  quoted  softly 
from  time  to  time,  as  she  fitted  some  specially  telling  pack- 
age into  its  secure  corner. 

The  trunk  was  a  large,  substantial  affair.  That  had 
been  Mary's  triumph  two  weeks  ago;  it  was  our  triumph 
now,  neatly  turned.  It  was  so  heavy  at  the  last  that  I 
could  barely  lift  one  end. 

And  as  for  the  express  charge ! — 

"There!"  we  said  as  we  paid  and  signed. 


22  THE   STORY   OF   MARY   MECOME 

Yes,  I  know,  alas!  our  weakness  was  manifest  again, 
our  base  unworthiness.  That  malicious  exclamation  laid 
us  open  to  punishment. 

Well,  we  settled  down  to  wait,  eagerly  impatient.  We 
calculated  the  days  and  the  hours.  Two  days  for  the  trans- 
portation of  the  trunk;  one  day,  well,  two,  for  Mary's  de- 
light to  spend  itself  in  observation  and  adjustment;  two 
days  for  a  letter  to  reach  us.  Six  days  then  before  we  could 
reap  the  full  fruit  of  our  pleasure. 

We  followed  the  trunk  closely  in  thought.  Now  it 
had  reached  the  city.  Now  it  was  being  carried  up  the 
stairs  to  Mary's  room.  A  pretty  big  trunk  for  such  nar- 
row stairs,  we  thought  complacently.  Then  we  remem- 
bered that  it  had  gone  down  those  same  stairs  three  weeks 
ago.  The  suggestion  brought  with  it  a  certain  arresting 
qualm.  How  would  she  feel  when  she  first  saw  it  coming 
back  again,  that  trunk  so  proudly  dispatched?  But  this 
shade  of  apprehensive  misgiving  vanished  promptly  enough 
as  we  gave  ourselves  over  to  picturing  the  unpacking  of 
boxes  and  jars. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  has  ever  tasted  stuffed  prunes 
before?"  we  asked  each  other  in  smiling  content. 

In  spite  of  our  careful  allowances  for  delays  and  stupe- 
factions, we  began  to  look  for  the  letter  on  the  first  mail 
possible.  We  were  not  surprised  that  it  did  not  come,  hard- 


THE   STORY   OF    MARY   MECOME  23 

ly  disappointed.  Nor  yet  on  the  second  day  were  we  trou- 
bled; elated  rather,  had  we  not  said  she  would  be  over- 
whelmed? But  the  third  day  brought  an  uneasy  note  into 
the  voice  with  which  I  replied,  calling  back  from  the  front 
door,  "No,  not  yet,  Dear  You."  When  four  and  five  days 
had  passed  thus  silent  we  were  frankly  distressed.  Had 
the  trunk  gone  astray?  Was  Mary  ill?  Had  a  letter  been 
lost?  We  consulted  together  in  puzzled  anxiety,  ruefully 
cast  down. 

And  yet  we  took  no  steps  to  follow  up  the  matter.  This 
quiescence  on  our  part  was  significant.  It  meant  that  all 
the  time,  in  our  heart  of  hearts  we  knew,  we  knew.  This 
was  not  our  role  with  Mary  Mecome,  this  of  benefactress. 
In  turning  the  tables  (or  trunks)  upon  her,  we  were  dis- 
turbing the  order  of  things,  rebelliously  running  counter  to 
Fate.  Moreover,  that  "There!"  with  which  we  paid  the 
expressman  lurked  in  our  guilty  remembrance.  We  said 
very  little  as  the  days  passed  and  still  no  letter.  We  only 
looked  at  each  other  and  smiled.  Some  tribute  of  humor 
must  be  given  to  our  abject  failure.  Finally,  after  ten 
days  or  so,  I  came  whirling  upstairs  from  the  Postman's 
visit. 

"Dear  You,"  I  called,  "here  it  is ;  come  quick !" 
I  was  quite  out  of  breath,  so  Dear  She  opened  and 
read: 


24  THE   STORY   OF   MARY   MECOME 

"Dear  Friend:  I  was  sorry  You  did  not  care  for  the 
Trunk,  I  thought  You  might  like  to  have  it.  Thank  You 
for  the  Things  You  sent,  I  found  a  Family  in  the  next 
Street  who  eats  onions  and  Mrs.  Rogers  in  the  House  here 
drinks  Coffee,  Candy  isn't  good  for  me  so  I  gave  the  Box 
.away  to  a  little  Boy,  I  hope  it  won't  make  him  sick.  My 
Dear,  I  am  wurryed  to  think  You  eat  canned  Vegitables, 
don't  You  know  they  ain't  healthy  at  all?  Please  mind  me 
and  don't  never  touch  them  again,  I  have  thrown  all  These 
away. 

"And  now  I  must  tell  Dear  You  that  I  am  going  to 
pack  the  Trunk  again  with  the  rest  of  the  Pieces  I  wrote 
Dear  You  about  and  with  a  Pitcher,  one  of  a  Sett  which 
Dear  You  shall  have  at  my  Death,  Dear  You  must  watch 
tout  sharp  for  the  Trunk,  it  will  come  in  a  Day  or  two. 
Dear  You's  eyes  will  shine  I  can  tell  you,  it  is  a  lovely 
Pitcher. 

"Yours  truly  in  haste, 

"MARY  MECOME/'' 

Comment  is  doubtless  unnecessary  on  the  state  of  mind 
of  the  recipients  of  this  letter ! 

It  was  characteristic  of  Mary  that  her  letters  came 
always  in  quick  succession,  two  or  three  in  as  many  days. 
She  seemed  full  of  afterthoughts.  Therefore  we  were  not 


THE   STORY   OF    MARY   MECOME  25 

surprised  to  receive  another  reassurance  close  on  the  heels 
of  the  first. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  to  know  that  I've  found  some- 
body to  take  the  sweet  Potatoes.'" 

Again  in  a  day  or  two, 

"Mrs.  Blake  says  the  Tea  is  real  good." 

We  grew  to  dread  the  coming  of  these  letters;  we 
took  them  shrinkingly  from  the  Postman.  Yet  we  laughed 
too;  O,  we  laughed!  And,  after  all,  our  hope  was  not 
fully  frustrate,  our  success  did  not  forever  delay.  For  once, 
in  a  postscript,  Mary  said,  apropos  of  nothing, 

"I  was  cold  when  I  came  home  last  Night,  so  I  made 
me  a  cup  of  Cocoa  out  of  the  Can  which  Dear  You  sent 
and  it  was  good." 

Over  this  crumb  of  satisfaction  which,  only,  was  our 
due,  we  bowed  our  heads,  humbly  grateful ;  and  never  again 
in  all  her  life  did  we  attempt  to  get  even  with  Mary  Me- 
come. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FOR  thirty  years  we  lived  on  Mary  Mecome's  bounty. 
She  was  a  part  of  life  to  us,  a  part  of  its  finer, 
dearer  side  which  never  grew  common  or  stale.  The 
very  humor  of  our  relation  kept  it  always  fresh. 
Then   one   day,   quite   suddenly,   we   found   ourselves 
thrown  on  the  world,  for  Mary  Mecome  was  dead. 

We  were  living  that  winter  not  far  from  Mary's  home. 
Dear  She  had  been  planning  to  go  and  see  her  as  soon 
as  Christmas  should  be  over.  She  was  not  very  well  we 
knew,  but  her  letters  came,  frequent  and  long  as  ever. 
The  years  might  bother  her  body  indeed,  her  spirit  held 
them  at  bay.  We  could  hardly  believe  the  telegram;  we 
looked  at  each  other  aghast.  "Mary  Mecome  dead,  come 
at  once.  N.  Cone."  Then  *we  pushed  back  our  chairs 
from  the  luncheon  table. 

"The  next  train  leaves  at  four,"  I  said ;  "we  must  take 
it,  Dear  You." 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MECOME         27 

We  knew  nothing  of  the  circumstances  until  we  reached 
the  city  after  dark  that  evening.  I  leaned  back  in  the 
train  and  thought — Mary  Mecome  dead!  My  mind  went 
over  all  the  past,  swiftly,  eagerly,  marveling  as  one  does 
marvel  when  death  throws  its  strange  illumination  on  life, 
and  the  salient  points  start  out.  Had  I  half  realized  the 
beauty,  I  wondered,  the  strength  of  this  devotion?  I 
glanced  at  Dear  Her  and  my  heart  was  warm.  There  had 
never  been  anything  like  it,  I  thought;  an  affection  unique 
in  the  world.  David  and  Jonathan,  Damon  and  Pythias — 
those  were  reciprocal  loves.  Mary  Mecome  waited  not  to 
receive,  but  bestowed  herself  on  Dear  Her. 

We  made  our  way  to  Mrs.  Cone's  house.  We  did  not 
know  this  good  lady  ourselves,  but  she  had  been  Mary's 
friend  for  years.  She  received  us  with  a  subdued  serious- 
ness that  fitted  the  occasion,  but  in  her  eye  was  a  gleam  of 
something — triumph,  success — what  had  she  been  up  to,  I 
wondered,  as  we  followed  her  into  her  parlor.  Even  so 
might  Mary  have  looked  when  she  sent  that  famous  trunk 
back  to  us. 

Mrs.  Cone  was  a  little  woman,  spare,  erect,  with  a 
spirited  independence  of  bearing,  fit  to  be  Mary  Mecome's 
friend.  She  told  us  her  story  succintly  enough,  her  tone  a 
mingling  of  the  same  gravity  and  elation  which  lurked  in 
her  eye.  Mary  had  died  in  the  hospital,  quite  suddenly,  of 


28  THE   STORY   OF   MARY   MECOME 

pneumonia.  Poor  and  alone  as  she  was,  science  had  bent 
its  cold  eye  upon  her ;  she  was  a  rightful  prey. 

"And  she  such  a  frail  of  a  body  too!"  Mrs.  Cone 
said  indignantly.  "But  I  told  them  no,  she  was  not  alone, 
she  had  a  dear  friend,  a  lady,  who  was  coming  as  fast  as 
she  could;  they  must  not  touch  Mary.  I  went  away;  but 
I  wasn't  no  ways  satisfied;  I  was  afraid  they'd  do  it  after 
all.  So  I  put  on  my  bonnet  again  and  went  to  Cromwell, 
Wolffe  &  Co.,  and  told  them  to  send  for  Mary.  She's 
there  now." 

Cromwell,  Wolffe  &  Co!  If  one  had  hunted  the 
country  over,  one  could  not  have  found  an  establishment 
more  aristocratic — nor  more  expensive  to  boot!  The  good 
Mrs.  Cone !  It  was  not  her  funeral !  Also,  I  have  no  doubt, 
she  felt  the  fitness  of  things  and  knew  that  the  best  was 
none  too  stately  for  the  little  body  concerned.  Just  as  Mary 
had  sat  at  her  ease  in  the  front  pew  of  Olivet  Church,  so 
she  lay  now  where  she  belonged,  among  the  wealthy  dead 
in  the  great  rooms  of  Cromwell,  Wolffe  &  Co.  Only  now 
it  made  no  difference  to  her.  That  was  too  bad.  If  she 
could  only  have  known  beforehand!  I  could  hardly  so 
minimize  the  exalting  effect  of  death  as  to  suppose  that  her 
spirit  cared,  even  if  it  could  look  back  and  see  its  body's 
resting  place.  But  if  she  might  have  anticipated! 

At  first  I  rejoiced  in  the  chance  that  seemed  at  last  to 


THE  STORY  OF  MARY  MECOME         29 

lie  in  our  hands.  We  could  get  even  with  Mary  now,  we 
could  give  her  a  treat  which  she  must  accept,  which  she 
could  not  repay.  I  smiled  with  satisfaction.  But  again  the 
punishment  was  swift  for  the  unworthy  thought.  That 
Will,  leaving  all  she  possessed  to  Dear  Her!  We  might 
delude  ourselves  as  much  as  we  pleased  by  paying  for  the 
funeral  out  of  our  own  purse ;  there  would  be  just  so  much 
more  in  our  purse  again  when  Mary's  bank  book  was  made 
over  to  us.  It  was  not  I  who  smiled  this  time,  but  a  some- 
thing fine  in  the  air  above  me,  I  thought.  Or  was  I  again 
in  danger  of  belittling  death? 

Anyway,  whosoever  the  credit,  the  funeral  took  place 
in  proper  order.  Display,  ostentation  of  any  kind  would 
have  been  offensive  to  Mary.  Propriety  was  her  satisfac- 
tion, and  none  knew  better  than  she  its  bounds.  So  a  sim- 
ple black  coffin,  a  simple  black  dress  of  fine  wool  and  soft 
white  chiffon,  and  a  great  loose  bunch  of  flowers  and  ferns 
were  what  we  ordered  for  her.  I  think  she  would  most 
have  appreciated,  could  she  only  have  had  the  anticipation, 
the  decorum  of  the  black-coated  men  who  bore  her  gravely, 
respectfully,  as  if  she  were  a  princess. 

When  Dear  She  and  I,  as  chief  mourners,  went  up  to 
look  at  our  dead  benefactress,  I  warned  myself  inwardly. 

"Remember,"  I  thought,  "a  poor  old  woman,  a  dwarf, 
and  wasted  by  sickness,  no  doubt." 


30  THE   STORY    OF    MARY   MECOME 

But  the  next  instant  I  caught  my  breath.  Seldom  had 
I  seen  a  beauty  of  expression  such  as  that  which  shone 
from  the  face  before  me  against  the  satin  pillow.  Poor, 
old  and  wasted,  to  be  sure,  but  invested  with  such  a  triumph 
of  soul  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  look  up  and  speak  out 
this  great  thing  which  it  had  learned.  Every  line  was  in- 
stinct with  sudden  intelligence,  not  surprise  so  much  as 
realization.  Ah,  Mary's  soul  was  free  at  last.  What  had 
she  seen  in  that  supreme  moment  which  left  its  stamp  upon 
her? 

The  service  was  simple  and  dignified.  There  were  not 
many  people  present.  Mary's  death  was  not  one  to  be 
widely  mourned  any  more  than  her  life  had  been  one  to 
be  widely  cherished.  But  it  was  all  right;  Dear  She  was 
there. 

We  went  to  her  room  that  afternoon.  The  place  was 
in  perfect  order,  save  that  the  dust  had  gathered  on  the  fur- 
niture. The  kettle  shone  on  the  neat  black  stove,  the  dishes 
stood  ranged  immaculate  on  the  cupboard  shelves,  a  towel 
bearing  Dear  Her's  initial  lay  folded  within  the  work-bas- 
ket. The  room  was  cold,  and  its  personality  had  evapor- 
ated somewhat  in  the  absence  of  its  mistress,  so  subtle  an 
essence  personality  is.  But  we  lighted  a  fire  in  the  stove 
and  won  the  cheer  gradually  back. 


THE   STORY   OF    MARY   MECOME  31 

Before  the  bed  I  stood  pondering.  A  tiny  bed,  very 
neatly  made,  with  a  flowered  quilt  spread  over  it — why  was 
its  general  effect  so  depressing,  lugubrious  even?  I  could 
not  tell. 

"Made  to  represent  a  grave,  ma'am,  you  see,"  said 
Mrs.  Cone  with  quiet  pride,  coming  up  behind  us.  "Head- 
stone and  footstone  quite  true  to  life." 

That  was  it  of  course.  I  acknowledged  the  representa- 
tion at  once.  Only  a  death's  head  and  an  inscription  were 
lacking  to  the  high,  narrow  headboard.  The  flowery  quilt, 
was  that  symbolic  too,  type  of  the  blossoming  earth? 

My  high  veneration  for  the  august  dead  gives  way  in 
spite  of  me  to  a  human  sentiment  when  I  think  of  that  after- 
noon. I  am  very  sure  Mary  Mecome  was  there,  watching 
us  gleefully.  She  must  have  seen  us  unpack  the  rare  old 
china  toilet  set;  I  cannot  have  it  thac  she  did  not  hear  our 
exclamations  of  pleasure. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?"  I  cried,  raising  my  voice  a  little. 

Whence  she  had  gathered  her  stored-up  treasures  it 
was  interesting  to  consider.  Rich  people  for  whom  she 
had  worked  had  given  them  to  her  I  suppose,  growing  tired 
of  them,  or,  not  at  all  impossibly,  being  lured  by  her  artful 
praises.  She  had  always  an  unerring  eye  for  the  excellent 
and  an  unfailing  thought  for  the  future  of  her  bosom 
friend.  At  any  rate,  there  were  odds  and  ends  of  things 


32  THE    STORY    OF    MARY    MECOME 

in  her  little  room  which  were  rare  and  valuable.  Dear 
Her's  eyes  did  shine  I  can  tell  you ;  but  fully  as  often  and 
fully  as  softly  over  the  funny  old  pictures  of  herself  and 
over  the  hoarded  letters  as  over  the  cups  and  plates.  It  was 
altogether  an  afternoon  that  must  have  laid  claim  to  Mary's 
recent  enlargement  of  soul  to  support  the  triumph.  We 
were  once  more  definitely,  successfully,  finally  overwhelmed. 
And  we  could  not  say  "thank  you"  even. 

No,  on  the  whole,  with  some  regret,  I  retract  that 
"finally/'  For  one  thing,  our  home  is  adorned  for  years, 
for  a  life  time  to  come. 

"O,  where  did  you  get  that  lovely  old  plate?"  "It  be- 
longed to  Mary  Mecome." 

"Dear  You,  is  there  any  red  silk  in  the  house?"  "Yes, 
plenty  in  Mary's  work-basket." 

For  another  thing,  she  has  gained  an  unfair  advantage 
by  taking  herself  off  to  the  spirit  world.  Who  can  tell  what 
she  may  not  be  up  to  now,  working  away  there  in  silence, 
what  daily  benefits  are  due  to  her  intervention? 

"Here,  Dear  You,"  she  will  say  some  day,  "here  is 
your  angel's  robe  all  ready.  I  have  worked  it  nicely  and 
embroidered  it  with  your  initials.  Take  it  with  love,  Dear 
You." 


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